Chapter Text
She's just not warm; she's burning. Hotter than he has become used to, hotter than the imprint has ever made her feel before.
What if—
Jacob imagines a wolf with Seth's colouring; a wolf with Leah's eyes, and fresh fear washes over him, ice-cold and suffocating, and he's drowning, he can't breathe—
"S'just a fever," Leah mumbles. She rolls over, nestling into his elbow and pressing herself close. She sighs, relaxing against his bare skin, and her seemingly endless undulating shivers cease almost immediately.
Just a fever.
— Chapter 51: Jacob, ‘Between Who You Are and Who You Could Be’
1.
In hindsight, she probably should have listened when Jacob insisted that hiking halfway up the mountain and spending half the night with seven bloodsuckers was not a good idea. They both know it, even if neither of them is willing to say it.
Her limbs ache; it is painful to move, to shift her legs underneath the blankets that have been heaped upon her. Even the simple act of blinking has her eyes aching as if she has sand in them, so she keeps them closed, instead focusing on the sound of Jacob’s voice in her ear, his words soothing and full of reassurances.
Throughout the day, she has a vague awareness of others hovering around her. Her mom, maybe. Embry, definitely—wherever she and Jacob are, he is rarely far behind. Through the fog that has swept in, she imagines Embry standing sentry at her bedroom door, his arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watches her pitiful attempts to shake off a simple fever, ignoring the sounds of warning Jacob makes in the back of his throat whenever someone comes too close.
She has half a mind to tell the pair of them to get a grip—and she would, only it hurts too much. It would also be pointless; they are about as likely to listen to her as she is able to admit that, with every passing minute, she is feeling worse, not better.
After spending hours at her side in a bid to keep her warm, Jacob slowly begins to pull away. “She’s warmer,” he says, and for the life of her, she cannot understand why he sounds concerned about it. She’s simply grateful to not be so cold anymore.
“That’s good, right?” Embry asks, confused but hopeful.
Jacob doesn’t answer immediately. He pulls further away, and she squeezes her eyes closed. Every movement, however unintentional, sends a sharp pain straight through her. It is like a knife slicing through her body, like a fire raging down to her lungs with every strained breath.
“Right?” Embry asks again.
“We need to get her outside. Now.” Strong hands yank at her, lifting her off the bed. “Move!”
She was right.
She is worse. Not better.
Embry curses, panic lacing his tone, though all of a sudden she is unable to focus on the words being said around her. She bounces against Jacob’s chest as he hurtles from the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and straight into the yard.
And then:
Black edges her vision as a new wave of agony lashes at her back, her chest, red-hot and burning her alive beneath her skin. Spasms seize her arms and legs; she is barely aware of Jacob releasing her, can hardly hear him roaring her name as Embry gives a shout of warning and lunges into the fray, holding Jacob back—
Flames blaze down her spine, burning away the lingering traces of her childhood, forging something hardier in its place. She knows what this is, understands from the legends what is happening and what is yet to come; she has seen it happen to Seth, to Quil, and now it is happening to her, too.
Make it stop. She tries to yells the words, bellow that she doesn’t want this anymore, not if it means living with this unbearable heat, this pain—
When Leah screams again, she hears howling.
2.
After minutes, hours, the spinning in her head comes to an abrupt stop.
She lies there, somewhere, feeling everything and nothing as the pain slowly begins to recede, leaving a dull ache in its place that she fears she will never lose. It is uncomfortable, but bearable—enough that she can think around its fuzzy edges. Enough that she has a sense she is being watched, that there is someone else here—wherever here is—and they are holding their breath, waiting, purposefully keeping themselves as far away from her as possible in this dark space, too afraid to come any closer.
But there are other ways to reach out in this place. She had almost forgotten.
Leah?
The voice is tentative, one she knows but cannot place. His low timbre speaks to something deep inside of her, a connection that cannot easily be forgotten; her mind may be addled and exhausted but she is not impervious to his pull—not as a woman and, apparently, not as a wolf.
Sam.
His consciousness edges closer, brushing tentatively against hers. She is too tired to push him away and block him out, though she is not sure she would succeed if she even knew how. Especially not if she is now bound to submit to him like Embry and Quil and Seth, like Paul and Jared, like Collin and Brady.
Everyone except Jacob.
Distantly, she can still hear him calling her name, the sound of his voice tugging and calling to a part of her being that she has never considered before. It is almost like having a third hand suddenly affixed to her body, alien and unwelcome and seemingly permanent; merely attempting to control this new fragment of her being is enough to call forth a fresh ache in her chest as Jacob calls for her, again and again, but it is like she is paralysed, unable to move towards his voice and provide the reassurance he so desperately needs.
Sam creeps ever closer, prodding at her thoughts that are separate and yet not.
Lee? Is that you?
I hate that name, she thinks. It is the first thought that comes to her head, unbidden—and so, of course, it is the first thing that Sam hears. Everything she is belongs to the pack now. To him. Alpha.
A wave of pure anguish is his only answer, wild and out of control as it rages through him, through her. And though it was inevitable, it stings all the same: Sam didn’t want her then, and he doesn’t want her now.
She should’ve known, really. Should’ve known that she would not be welcome.
She vaguely recalls being told the Alpha is automatically awarded an additional modicum of privacy—some kind of bullshit that she is sure Sam uses solely to cement his position at the head of the pack, to lord his superiority over Jacob—but it seems that Sam is as unable to keep his thoughts in check as she is. Leah sees flashes of a past life, a life that was once hers. She is confronted with Sam’s regret and shame and his hope, his wasted dreams, and despite everything she cannot help but feel relieved that it is just the two of them in this place, that Jacob is not here to witness this loss of control.
Because she was wrong: Sam does want her—still. More than he should. And they both know that is infinitely worse than not wanting her. Worse than him knowing she will choose Jacob every time, even if he does not choose Emily.
Sam, her mind protests, shying away from the onslaught of his thoughts.
I know, he replies sadly. A beat passes, and the Alpha returns, back in control. You need to move.
I can’t. She tries to stretch her limbs out, to force her new body to obey. She has been on the ground for too long—she should be running, or so Sam thinks. The risk is too great; she won’t be able to phase back until she learns how, and there are too many chances that she might be seen. She has to keep the secret.
Open your eyes, he orders, and get up.
She feels it then—the weight of a true Order—and wonders if she might be able to refuse him. Jacob did. Maybe she might be able to follow in his footsteps. They could start their own pack—
Sam feels no guilt about squishing that particular thought of hers before it can fully take form. He meets her resistance head-on: he throws every piece of himself into the next Order he sends her way, leaving no room for argument, for rebellion.
Run.